


Three Stages of Letting Go

by passerbyinlife



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-28
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-02-06 14:18:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1861116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passerbyinlife/pseuds/passerbyinlife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock pays his brother a visit after a distastrous meeting with John Watson in a restaurant. (The Empty Hearse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**The Three Stages of Letting Go**

 

_Stage 1: Realisation_

        Mycroft was not the kind of person that could be easily surprised. But of all things he was prepared for to be on his doorstep an hour before midnight, he did not expect it to be Sherlock, his younger brother. With a bleeding nose.

        He reacted in a way that he was most familiar with, 'I presume that your reunion with John Watson went just as planned.' Sarcasm had always been a close friend of his.

 

        'The guest room's ready,' Mycroft stated, striding back into the sitting room. Sherlock was there, curled up on the couch, staring into space. It took him moments to register what Mycroft had just said. After a few confounded blinks, he rose mechanically from the couch and went to his room. Mycroft could not help but stare after him and wonder what exactly John Watson had done to his little brother. It had been a long time ever since he had seen Sherlock look so broken.

 

        Mycroft was on his way to bed, running through the various appointments he had to attend the next day in his head, when the sound of soft sobbing stopped him in his tracks. Gently, he opened the door to the guest room.

        Sherlock was crying in his sleep. He tossed and turned restlessly in his bed as tears ran down his cheeks. 'John,' he murmured, as Mycroft stiffen. 'John, John, John.' The thrashing continued for some time, as Mycroft stood by helplessly, not knowing what to do.

 

        Sherlock woke with a start after banging his head none too gently on the headboard of the bed. Sitting up, he buried his face in his hands, the information he acquired this evening slamming against the insides of his head. Things were never going to be the same. John no longer needed him. Along with the realisation came the pain, the bundle of emotions that he had tried and failed to oppress, those that he had attempted not to feel but felt all the same. He also noticed that he was not quite alone.

        Of course, Sherlock mused as he looked up and met the gaze of his older brother. Mycroft. Who else could it be? He thought, pushing down the disappointment thrumming in the depths of his stomach. He felt sick.

 

        Mycroft rifled through his brain as he made eye contact with Sherlock, as he asked the question that he had been longing to ask for the entire evening. 'Why me? 'It was a known fact between the both of them- that Sherlock constantly felt intimidated by Mycroft, that he would never dare to ask Mycroft for help, for that would mean a display of weakness for Sherlock. 'You are the only person who had ever seen me cry,' Sherlock stated. 'And you're probably the one who knows me best, who knows what I need.' At that, Sherlock shifted over on his bed and patted the spot next to him. 'Mycroft?' He asked uncertainly.

        He knew that was what a majority of siblings do. Physical intimacy as a form of comfort. But he and Sherlock had never been a part of that majority. It was such a human thing to do, hugging. It was so emotional and fragile and exposing. He wondered where Sherlock got the idea on matters of cuddling siblings. Most probably from John's recounts of his childhood. Every bit of him screamed at him to say no, to go back to his room, but it was his little brother who was concerned. Sherlock needed him. And so he sidled reluctantly over to Sherlock's side, and allowed his little brother to hold onto him and cry into his new silk pyjamas.

       

        ‘He’s getting married,' Sherlock choked out in between sobs.

'How many times must I tell you, Sherlock? Caring is not an advantage, and it never will be.'

'He's getting married, Mycroft, he's getting married,' Sherlock murmured, almost as if in daze.

'You're starting to sound like a half- wit now, repeating the same sentence over and over again. What is it that you're trying to tell me?'

'He's getting married, Mycroft, don't you get it?' Sherlock was shouting now. Mycroft wondered what exactly it was that he was getting so perplexed over...

...Oh.

'Simple. You tell him you love him face- to- face. What's so complex about that?

'I can't, Myc, and I shouldn't do so. Two years ago, I ruined his life. He's better off without me. I should have expected this. I should have known. Who was I to expect that I could simply pop back into his life and that it would all be what it once was before?'

'It's going to be all right, Sherlock, it will.'

Yet the both of them knew that it wasn't, in any sense, all right, nor would things be all right ever again.

        And so Mycroft made an awkward attempt at hugging and comforting his little brother as Sherlock cried himself to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

_ Stage Two: Pain _

 

‘And the pity party commences,’ Mycroft sighed as he allowed Sherlock into his home, ‘How was it like, being the best man?’ Sherlock gave him a death stare before sweeping into the house.

 

Closing the door, Mycroft turned around and narrowly ducked a punch to the face issued by Sherlock. ‘What on earth-‘ he breathed as he pushed Sherlock into a wall. It was then that he got a clear view of his brother’s face. Sherlock’s jaw was tightened, his hair mussed, his pupils dilated. And Mycroft Holmes understood why Sherlock had decided to come here tonight. He was looking for a fight.

 

Without missing a beat, Mycroft reached forward for Sherlock’s arms, twisting them as to gain leverage and pushed the both of them deeper into the house, where they would be able to fight without breaking quite as many things. Sherlock reacted by kicking Mycroft’s kneecap. Hard. Mycroft pulled himself back, freeing Sherlock’s wrists as he steadied himself against the coffee table nearby. ‘Out of practice, aren’t you,’ Sherlock breathed. They used to do this when they were children, Mycroft mused as he recalled the memories of their mother despairing over how her sons had weekly ‘spy trainings’ together, scuffling in and out of rooms as they practiced all kinds of punching and kicking techniques against each other. In all honesty, Mycroft rather enjoyed fighting with his little brother. Those were the only times when he felt that understanding was something that could exist between the two of them.

 

He was given half a second to regain his balance and then Sherlock was on him again, throwing punch after punch as Mycroft deflected them swiftly. It was a simple, brutal dance that they were more than familiar with. Mycroft deflected another one of Sherlock’s punches, ducking under the glass coffee table as Sherlock smashed his fist against it. Blood and glass went everywhere. Immediately, Mycroft slipped out from below the coffee table and pinned Sherlock to the ground.

 

Sherlock glared up at Mycroft defiantly. ‘You’re crying,’ Mycroft observed as he let go of Sherlock. His little brother did not bother to reply, as he curled up on the ground, rocking slightly, disregarding his bleeding hand entirely. Mycroft, meanwhile, decided to make himself scarce- he genuinely had no idea how to comfort his evidently distressed brother, and something had to be done what with Sherlock dripping blood all over his cream colored carpet.

 

When he re- entered the room, Sherlock was still on the floor, staring vacantly at the blank television screen. Mycroft threw a towel at him. Sherlock wrapped it around his hand as he looked up at Mycroft and whispered softly ‘He’s married, Mycroft. He’s married now.’ His voice broke at the very last note. Standing up abruptly, he headed for the door. ‘Sherlock-‘ Mycroft began uncertainly. ‘I will be fine. Thank you for the-‘ Sherlock glanced around, at the broken coffee table and the smudges of blood on various surfaces, ‘-hospitality.’ That being said, he swept out of the house.

 

Mycroft meanwhile, stood by the window, looking on with silent worry, at the retreating figure of his little brother as it was gradually swallowed up by the night.


End file.
